


Knowing Somehow We Survived The Fall

by clockworkrobots



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkrobots/pseuds/clockworkrobots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jensen Ackles meets Misha Collins on the set of Supernatural’s fourth season, it is not for the first time. The fact of the matter is, Jensen has rather more secrets from his past than he would like to admit--however, encountering Misha and his attraction to him again might force him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 [Dean/Castiel BigBang](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/), with eternal and ever-grateful thanks to my lovely betas (I honestly could not have finished this without you!), and my superhero artist Marina (who's art for this you can find [here](http://leywald.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d5iu5vo)!)

 

 

If a reporter were to ask Jensen Ackles about his love life, they’d probably receive some appropriately evasive answer. He doesn’t _mean_ to produce an air of enigma around it, he really just thinks it’s nobody’s business. Of course, he’ll bring dates to the red carpet and he’d never stoop to chasing down a paparazzi, but over the years Jensen has developed a tight enough strategy for secrecy that very little effort is needed to keep his deepest secrets kept. His strategy is this: tell _no one_.

Which is why, when several people close to him found out about his involvement with one very male co-star, they were at once very surprised, and very much not. Surprised, because they were impressed with how Jensen managed to keep it a secret. Unsurprised, because it is understandable the lengths one will go to when one is in love.

Although who knew, Jensen Ackles would end up falling in love with Misha Collins, and eight years before anyone knew they had met.

It was a story that went like this:

 

Part I: 2000, or The Past Is Prologue: A Very Long Prologue

 

 

The first time they met it was decidedly un-Hollywood. Not that things like coffee shops didn’t exist in L.A., obviously, as Jensen was currently _in one_ , but that their first meeting was rather more suited to a big-budget studio set than for the real-life setting of the film actors who would star in them. They were no Meg Ryan movie.

Although it was fitting, all considered, as Jensen had yet to land himself as a star in a major blockbuster film. Which was, in all honesty, fine by him. He liked working smaller scale, and he liked television. It's not like _Days of Our Lives_ had been top-tier entertainment, sure, but he liked that it was consistent—it had a viewership, and he had a story, and time to flesh it out. If he could work up to starring on his _own_ show, well—that would be the blockbuster equivalent for him. If all went well, and if the audition he'd gotten earlier in the day went as well as he felt it did, he might be there sooner than he thought.

But first: victory coffee. If the employees at this coffee shop would _make_ it already.

“Audition go well, then?”

Jensen turns around from where he stands at the shop's pick-up counter to find the owner of the voice looking straight at him.

Friendly enough, with light-brown hair and standing at a couple inches shorter than Jensen himself, in many ways the boy is completely unremarkable. He's not stunning, he's actually rather awkward looking despite his handsome countenance. His grin, as he smiles at Jensen, is just this side of lopsided to be considered mischievous. But his eyes—his eyes are piercing and playful all at once, a blue deep enough for a poet's muse. And that's when Jensen knows he's low on caffeine, if he's thinking about the poetic worth of a guy's eyes. He wishes his latte would hurry up.

Jensen puts on his best smile, might as well be polite.

“Hopefully, you know how it is,” he says with a slight laugh. He assumes the guy is an actor too, if he recognised him, or recognised his restless tension that tends to infect young actors on the audition circuit.

“Somewhat,” the guy admits, and sticks out a hand for Jensen to shake. “Misha,” he offers.

“Jensen,” he replies, and Misha laughs. “What?”

Misha's gaze does a pan of his body, and Jensen almost wants to squirm under his scrutiny. A small, traitorous part of him, desperately hopes this guy likes what he sees. “You're very all-American for possessing such a strange name,” he clarifies.

Jensen almost wants to take offence, but something about the other man's countenance tells Jensen to take whatever he says fifty percent less seriously than he otherwise would. And hey, as if the guy was one to talk. “And 'Misha' is very normal?”

“Oh no,” he teases. “But then again, I never claimed to be normal either,” he says, licking his lips, which were _pink._ Full and pink and just this side of dry that Jensen wonders what it would be like to wet them himself—and where did _that_ thought come from?

"You're very..." Jensen trails off, and flicks his eyes over to the barista with their back still turned behind the counter. Where _was_ that drink?

"Attractive? Infuriating? Infuriatingly attractive?" Misha offers, face a mask of innocence, but eyes twinkling.

Jensen raises an eyebrow. "I was going to say ridiculous."

Misha only grins at that, victorious. "I can work with that."

"And hideous," Jensen adds, smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

"At least I have my charm.”

This guy is _resilient_. But Jensen can give as good as he gets. "Are you sure you even have that?"

"Oh yes."

"That's a bit arrogant."

"Well, call it what you want, but somehow I think you crave a bit of ridiculous," Misha concludes, and Jensen would protest further if this strange man weren't completely _right_. It's not that Jensen's life is _boring_ , exactly--far from it--but sometimes _he_ feels boring, too reserved and cautious for the character of L.A. But in the gaze of the wild eyes of this Misha guy, for the first time, in a long time, he feels _free._ As he picks up his coffee _finally_ set on the counter before him, he thinks it's a pity he'll probably never see him again.

And that was Jensen Ackles' first introduction to the phenomenon of “famous last words”.

 

 

***

 

 

It _is_ awhile before Jensen sees the mysterious Misha again—three weeks to be exact.

Three weeks of more auditions and call backs, and _waiting_ for call backs, until he sees him again. It might have been a little less by chance, this time.

It _might_ have been a conscious decision to come back to this shop more than once per week just to see if—just to see if he'd spend ten minutes waiting for coffee again, and ten minutes being thrown off kilter by a strange guy with dirty-blond hair and absurdly blue eyes. Ten minutes that maybe Jensen had thought about a little too much for a guy like him, resolved to be strictly career focused for the foreseeable future, and, moreover, totally, completely straight.

It was just a casual interest in the guy's eccentricity, right? It meant nothing. But it also meant Jensen needed to see him again just to be _sure_ , and three weeks later he got his wish.

It is almost exactly like the first time, and yet completely different all at once. The same, because Jensen is once again entirely flustered by the barrage of Misha's personality--different, because this time Jensen can actually _tell_ the guy feels the same about _him_.

“So we meet again, old friend,” Misha says by way of greeting, sitting down at the table Jensen had claimed for himself by the window. Jensen smiles behind his cup positioned at his lips.

“I missed that part where we were friends, I think.”

“Oh, did you? I'm Misha,” he says, obviously feigning ignorance and re-introducing himself as if he never had before, sticking his hand out exactly like he did the first time. Jensen doesn't take it.

“I remember you,” Jensen says instead, which supposedly was _exactly_ the right thing to say, because Misha's eyes light up. Damn those eyes.

“You do, do you? How fortunate for me.” Jensen tenses at the teasing dripping from his tone. He's not so reserved that he doesn't know benign teasing when he sees it, he's just not sure whether his heart is beating faster because it makes him uncomfortable or because he _likes_ it.

“Just because I remember you doesn't mean I want you sitting at my table,” he points out, except, of course, he doesn't really want him to go, not until he knows what this is, this _attraction_ , or whatever, and what it means. Misha might surmise as much.

“Somehow I don't that's quite true, _Jensen,_ ” he says, voice strangely rough for such a young face, and Jensen's own face heats up. He doesn't know if Misha's flirting with him yet but he can feel that parts of his body desperately want him to be.

“What do you want from me?” he finally asks, because he needs to know. _And what do I want from you_ , he doesn't say.

“You seemed like you're looking for a distraction, in all honesty,” he replies, and Jensen can't say why he instinctively knows it, but he can _tell_ he's giving him the truth. He gets a feeling that doesn't happen often with strange encounters of the Misha-kind. “And, as it just so happens, I am as well.”

And that _is_ flirting, Jensen knows, and he doesn’t even try to hide his blush. “So you make a habit of ambushing random strangers in coffee shops, then?”

“It's a favourite hobby, actually,” he says, and Jensen almost snorts unflatteringly. Yeah, he bets it is.

“I bet it is. And is it working?”

“Is what working?”

“Am I distracting you to your satisfaction?”

Misha smiles that damned smile, that smile that caught his breath in his chest that day three weeks ago and sent Jensen into a spiral of questions he hasn't let himself think about since he was 16, and only says: “Almost.” And then he gets up and leaves.

It's only after Jensen shakes himself out of his silent shock five minutes later that he realises Misha had left a napkin with what Jensen assumes is his number on it.

Jensen _knows_ it's a bad idea, he knows he'll only be disappointing himself and Misha and _everyone_ _else_ if he stumbles into something he's not ready for with this _dude_ that he doesn't even know, if he keeps this number. He takes it anyway.

The napkin burns in his pocket all the way home.

 

 

***

 

 

Despite looking at the taunting piece of paper almost every morning, Jensen doesn't call him for another week.

Something about Misha makes Jensen feel like the wait won't matter, which is equal parts worrying and satisfying, as Jensen doesn't quite know what to do with the knowledge that in some way, Misha _wants_ him.

The thing is, Jensen is not unused to this kind of desire. He'd had his moments in the past. He'd had his wet dreams about male classmates and male costars, and though he'd never acted on those desires, he knows better by now that there was no hope in burying them. Usually, he could just wait them out until the next girl caught his eye, but something about Misha was different. Something about Misha was _terrifying._ And tantalising, and therein lay the problem. Because Jensen knows about his own desires, knows enough about them to see them for what they were, but he'd never before been so aware of being the direct recipient of _someone else's_.

It was disorienting. It was altogether new and strange and also the best thing to ever happen to him. Which, of course, meant he was fucked.

He dials the number.

“Hello? Misha? It's Jensen. From the coffee shop.”

There's a brief silence on the other end. _“I didn't think you'd actually call,”_ Misha says finally, voice surprised and honest. Jensen knows it should probably unnerve him how this guy can read him so easily, but somehow it's like a weight has been lifted that he didn't even know was there.

“I didn't either,” he admits. “And I don't—”

Misha stops him there. _“Jensen,”_ he says as Jensen fidgets. _“I didn't give you my number to trick you into anything you're not ready for; you just looked like you could use a friend.”_

“Is that all?”

“ _If that's all you want.”_

“Well, right now I kind of want to get dinner. Are you game?”

 

 

***

 

 

They end up having dinner.

They end up having dinner and Jensen finds out Misha is an actor, too. He'd assumed, obviously--it was Hollywood--but he also finds out Misha is an actor-via-software-salesman-via-white-house-intern-via-what-else, and that he grew up in Boston but went to school in Chicago and despite being newer to acting than Jensen is, he has a life probably twice as interesting. But Jensen doesn't hold back his own story in the face of it.

He shares stories his youth in Texas and his flirtations with modelling. He tells him how relieved he was to leave the soap opera world behind but how much he misses the job security. He tells him stuff he hasn't told _anyone_ , not even his agent, about how much he loves acting but sometimes hates the stifling atmosphere L.A. demands, about how much he wishes he could get away from it but still do what he loves.

He tells him because he can see Misha _gets_ it. Hell, Misha probably hates it more that he does, the fabrication of celebrity, the veneer of glamour of the industry that only masks how intensely shitty so many people in it can be.

They end up having dinner and it's the best time Jensen's had in awhile. So they end up having five more dinners over the course of the next several weeks, and, by the end of the fifth one, something in Jensen’s head clicks that he's been effectively _dating_ Misha for about a month.

They're walking back to his apartment to part ways on the fifth night when he blurts out, “You're not seeing anyone are you?” because it occurs to him that he should probably find out definitively. What if Misha just does this with every guy he meets?

For once Misha looks like he is the one confused. “Um... yes?”

Although he'd thought about the possibility and told himself he'd be fine with it--it's not like Misha was _his,_ and they haven't even _kissed_ (in reality—he's had plenty of less than tame dreams)--that was definitely _not_ the answer he'd hoped for.

Jensen's stomach churns and his heart sinks. He looks anywhere but straight across from him. “Oh, okay--”

Misha interrupts his crisis. “I'm seeing _you_ , you idiot."

“Oh.” _Oh._

Well.

“So we're... dating?” Jensen asks, testing out the word in his mouth. Misha smiles, eyes kind.

“That's usually what people call this type of mating ritual.”

As Jensen realises what this has been all along, what's weird about it is how very _unweird_ it is. It’s as if the constant feeling of being off-kilter around Misha is really just the final lurch before pieces start falling into place.

“Mating ritual,” Jensen repeats, “That sounds very sexual.”

“It does,” Misha agrees.

“And that's... something you want, right?”

Misha nods. “If you do.”

Which, it's one thing to _know_ it, but another thing to hear it spelled out so blatantly before him, and Jensen feels somewhat lost again. He stops walking, and after a few moments, he starts, “Misha, listen, I’m-I’m not...”

“Gay?” Misha finishes. “I’m not either,” he supplies, causing Jensen to raise his brow. “Oh, I like boys well enough--you especially--” he winks, “but there is more than just ‘gay’ and ‘straight’ in this wide world of sexuality, Jensen.”

“So you’re... bisexual?” Jensen asks.

Misha shrugs. “Sure, if that’s easier for you, but I’m more... indiscriminate, shall we say. You should try it,” he finishes, eyes flicking down to Jensen’s lips, which only prompts Jensen to unconsciously lick them, and Misha's eyes go darker.

Suddenly it feels tremendously absurd that Misha's not kissing him, and that he's not kissing Misha. It's dark, there's no one else on the street and they're nearly at his building. Suddenly every reservation Jensen's ever had about kissing guys (and kissing this one guy in particular) melts away in favour of the view before him. In favour of Misha's lips and the thought of what they'd feel like pressed to his own. Jensen knows this is dangerous, that Misha is like fire, but, as he comes to a decision, he realises it's a burn he desperately wants to feel. He leans in. Misha meets him halfway.

Their first kiss is light but determined; Misha kisses with purpose, even when without much pressure. Jensen is shocked still for a second at the sensation, but quickly recovers and makes a sound of pleasure before leaning in ever further to start kissing back. It’s not the most amazing kiss in the world, it's not record making or fever inducing, but it’s a nice beginning.

In fact, it's just right.

It gets even better when Jensen raises a hand to cup Misha's jaw and the other man's breath hitches in such a way that shoots straight to Jensen's groin. Misha's body plies under him as if this was everything he'd been waiting for from him. If the rising feeling in Jensen's own chest is anything similar to what Misha's experiencing as his tongue licks at the curve of Jensen's lips, it probably was.

Misha breaks away from Jensen's attentions after a minute with a satisfied sigh. “You keep surprising me, Jensen Ackles,” he says, gorgeously breathless, cheeks visibly as flushed as the red of his lips, even in this dim light, and Jensen feels a renewed rush of satisfaction.

“Someone once told me they liked distractions,” he teases, hands still curled around the base of Misha’s neck.

And Misha laughs, a clear, deep sound that delights. “That was one hell of a distraction. You got any more of where that came from?”

There is plenty more where that came from. There is the texture of Misha’s mouth, soft and giving pressed up against his. There is the smoothness of his cheek, the softness of his hair as Jensen tangles his fingers in it. There is the noise emerging from the back of Misha's throat as Jensen’s tongue brushes his, and the insatiable growl Jensen finds himself emitting as Misha bites down on his bottom lip. There is more than breathlessness, because to kiss Misha is not to lose something, it’s to find something new altogether.

“We should—do you want to come up?” Jensen asks. “For drinks, or something,” he adds hastily after a moment, not wanting to sound too expectant and hopeful. As always, Misha can see right through him.

Misha’s fingers press into the skin of Jensen’s arm where they retain their hold. “Are you sure? We don't have to do anything more than this,” he says, raising his hand to Jensen's cheek.

Jensen huffs a laugh. “Misha, I don't know if you noticed but I'm pretty much never sure of anything when I'm around you.”

Something like a smile tugs at the corner of Misha's lips. Lips he'd just _kissed_. “I don't know if that's good or bad.”

Jensen smiles too, fully and freely and already missing the feeling of Misha's mouth on his. “Me neither.”

Misha's hands move down to curl around Jensen’s waist, and it's almost appallingly clichéd except for how the comfort of Misha's warmth is too entirely appealing to the extent that Jensen doesn’t even care.

“For what it's worth, you do the same thing to me,” Misha admits.

“I have a hard time believing anything phases you.”

Misha crowds closer—as if that's possible—and murmurs, “You don't know me well enough yet, then.”

“That could be remedied,” Jensen supplies, already thinking about how many seconds it would take to ascend the stairs to his door.

Misha grins even wider. “It could.”

 

 

***

 

 

It is.

They don’t talk - except that they do. But, instead of with words and quick quips, it’s with hands and the wordless speech of sighs in the dark. If Jensen thought Misha was open before, it’s nothing to how open he is beneath Jensen’s mouth and fingers as they move together. They grind and burn with something more than the frisson of excitement of the first time, something that has Jensen leaning over the other man in his bed and giving him more than he’s ever given anyone. All the sweat and tension and friction between himself and between them - he gives into it.

It could have meant nothing. It could have been just a distraction like they’d said. It could have been just sex, and they could have been just friends, supposing neither were changed by it. But, by the way Jensen’s skin still vibrates after, remembering every point where Misha touched it, he knows that could never be true.

After, they lie together.

“I didn't go to college,” Jensen says quietly, facing the ceiling.

Misha raises an eyebrow at abrupt turn of conversation. “It's not for everyone,” he offers. “Although you might have liked it,” he says after a beat. “Chicks, guys, drink, drama. It's basically a Hollywood microcosm multiplied throughout the country.”

Jensen can hear the acerbic lilt to Misha’s voice. “You liked college though.” It’s not a question.

“I liked parts of it,” Misha admits, shifting in the sheets until he’s lying on his side facing Jensen.

Jensen turns at the movement as well, and shifts accordingly, swinging an arm around Misha’s waist and pulling him closer. “What did you study?”

“Social theory—ways the world works, how people work, how politics helps, and how it fucks it up. Basically everything from Communism to neo-republicanism, we read it. Some aspects were frustrating—you would not _believe_ how pretentious some students can be—but I thought politics was what I wanted to go into, so it seemed the perfect direction to take. Turns out it wasn’t, because social theory is just as frustrating in political practice.”

Of course Misha would be the one to leave D.C. for Hollywood over gripes of authenticity. Somehow that is nothing but endearing to him. “So you became an actor instead.”

“More or less,” he says with a self-effacing laugh.

“And you're happy?” Jensen ask, genuinely curious.

Something firm settles into Misha’s face and shoulders. “It was the right decision to make.”

Jensen’s palm finds the crest of those shoulders as their bare skin peeks above the sheets around them, fingertips exploring flesh. “You didn't answer my question,” he says kindly.

“Only time will tell in that case,” Misha says with a small sigh, but quickly reclaims himself. “As it is, I am glad for it right now,” he concludes, and then cocks his head slightly, as much as the pillow will let him. “Why all the college questions?”

Jensen is quiet, trying to find the rights words to answer. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m terrible for you.”

Misha knots his brow in surprised confusion. “Because you didn’t incur massive amounts of student debt?”

“Because I don’t have any of those... formative experimental experiences.”

Misha chuckles. “Because you didn’t sleep around with undergrads? Jensen, that’s definitely not a character flaw. Besides," he begins, thumb grazing Jensen's still flush bottom lip. "I’m sure you had plenty of opportunity to sleep around here.”

“Not... really,” Jensen admits, because he hadn’t, really. He’d partied and done things he’d regretted, but he had never indulged in some of the wildly promiscuous activities of some of his friends. He’d dated, obviously, and slept with more than one of his girlfriends, but never felt entirely comfortable committing to something more long term, and never in his life would he consider cheating outside of it. “It was always too risky," he adds automatically.

Misha picks up on what exactly that means. "Because you only ever wanted to sleep with men?"

Jensen stiffens. "I don't like mixing business with pleasure," he responds reflexively, evasive.

“Hey,” Misha says gently cupping Jensen’s jaw, “I’m not trying to provoke you or make you uncomfortable.”

Jensen closes his eyes as he breathes a poorly masked shuddering breath in. “I--I know. I’m just not used to people knowing certain things about me.” _I’m not used to not needing a mask,_ he thinks.

Misha shrugs. “I’m an asshole a lot of the time, but that can be just as much of a mask as anything. I think we all hide parts of ourselves one way or another that we’re afraid others will break.”

But Jensen thinks Misha _could_ break him with this, whatever this is, with whatever he’s given to him and they’ve given to each other. He wonders whether if even the fear of breaking is still worth the fall.

He wonders if he could break Misha, too.

"So what if we were in something together? What about business and pleasure then?" Misha teases.

As dangerous as Jensen recognises that situation would be, he knows the answer. "I'd be liable for some intense reverse character bleed."

 

 

***

 

 

It was not the only time Misha stayed over. There was the second time, and the third time, and then the first time Jensen stayed over at his.

And for awhile there, it was fun and easy, and the more Misha smiled that full, wide, unabashed grin, Jensen did too, and he youthfully wished it would never end.

 

 

***

 

 

And then in ended, in an equal parts stupid and spectacular fashion.

They ended the same way they stared, with the result of an audition.

In all honesty, they should have both seen it coming, although afterwards, Jensen will wonder if Misha always did. Because as much as Jensen liked Misha, liked him more than enough to maybe admit he loved him, he existed in Jensen’s mind as something entirely separate from the life he’d constructed for himself. They were both actors, yes, but Misha was not part of his acting life, was not part of his work or his social circle. He’d invite Misha out with him, sure, but it was always understood that it was as friends; it was always understood that their relationship was something Jensen wanted to keep for himself. He liked that what he had with Misha was all his, and he liked that he didn’t have to worry about people questioning his sexuality. As far as the public was concerned, he had a crush on Jennifer Love Hewitt and may or may not be dating one of his female friends.

That was all they ever had to know.

And Misha understood, he did. He understood what it was to need to protect something over what you’re afraid people will reject, and he understood that sometimes Jensen’s more reserved nature around other people derived from this anxiety. Jensen knows that, because Misha understood, he could be himself around him.

Except sometimes this felt like not enough. Sometimes, Jensen felt himself wishing something would force him to change, to take a leap and take Misha out to the next premiere he was invited to and kiss him in front of a dozen cameras. When he’s with Misha, he feels brave. It’s when he’s _not_ with Misha that’s the problem. It’s when he’s not with Misha that every reason to runaway from every visceral thing the man makes him feel comes rearing back.

And it’s a problem that exposes itself when news comes in that Jensen might have occasion to be away from Misha for quite a long time.

He gets a role.

He gets a role and it’s a great one. It’s on a major network and has some huge names already attached. Even if it didn’t, the character alone would have been enough to tempt him. It’s a show called _Dark Angel_ , and, though its ratings were shaky in comparison to Fox’s other shows, Jensen was drawn to it enough that even the threat of eventual cancellation didn’t matter. This was _exactly_ the type of job he had been wanting for months. Except...

It shoots in Vancouver.

Which is at once a blessing, and a curse.

It’s great because getting away from L.A. is exactly what he’s been wanting for awhile. Jensen has no doubt L.A.: The Canadian Edition has its downfalls and vacuity too, but at least it was _new._ Jensen could leave something behind here and feel more free because of it.

Except leaving Los Angeles meant leaving Misha, too.

They could always try something long distance, but Jensen had never been in the position to know how well he could make that work. He didn’t know how to be with Misha and not be _with him_. He didn’t know how to love him and not be immediately able to touch. Misha was altogether too touchable for Jensen’s own good.

But he also didn’t always know how to be _with him_ here, either. Misha made him feel off-kilter and just right all at once. So hell, maybe a change of scenery for them both could do them both some good.

When he brings up the possibility of the move to Misha, it doesn’t go terribly well.

As it happens, their first real fight is also their last.

 

 

***

 

 

They’re sitting in Misha’s apartment, eating yet another delicious concoction of his (Jensen swears to god if he didn’t also have a million other reasons to like Misha, he would totally hook up with the guy just for his cooking) when Jensen tells him.

Ironically, it starts with a conversation about Jensen’s sexuality, something he’s never talked with _anyone_ about, but, well, Misha tends to do that with him.

“People thought I was gay in high school. They never said it to my face because I was... popular, I guess, and I had girlfriends. But I knew there were rumours, and I used to think—I used to wonder if they were right about me.”

“Were they?”

“I don't know, I was never... I've been attracted to guys before, I guess. I used to have thoughts about some of my guy friends, but that didn't mean to me that I was _gay_.”

Misha laughs, but it's not mocking. “What on earth did you think it meant?”

“I don't know! That I was horny, or frustrated, or mistaken, but gay people were—gay people went to dance clubs and wore flashy clothes and were gay in the old fashioned sense of the word. They were... what do you call it?”

“Exuberant? Flamboyant?” Misha supplies.

Jensen ducks his head and smiles a little. “Yeah. But that wasn't me. I didn't want attention that way, I didn't want people to think of me like that. Like I was a certain type of person because of who I slept with--I still don’t want them to think of me like that.”

“So you didn't want people to make the same assumptions about you that you were making about other people.”

“I--” Jensen starts to clarify, but Misha’s entirely _right_. “Yeah.”

“You do know not all gay people are a dance club stereotype, right? I actually think I know more straight people that fit the house music and ecstasy trope.”

Jensen looks up from his plate, green eyes wide. “Well sure, _you_ would say that, but everyone else?” Because this has been the motto he’s been living with for _years_ , that no one would understand.

Misha’s blue eyes soften when he sees the anxiety in Jensen’s own. “You really have to stop putting so much stock in what others think of you.”

Jensen shifts in his seat, feeling restless. “I'm an actor, my livelihood _depends_ on what others think of me.”

“But what if it didn’t? What if you had never become an actor or done modelling? What if you’d never even flirted with Hollywood and stayed Jensen Ackles: Texas native, forever?”

Jensen pauses, brow knitting together. “I think I would have changed even less than I have,” he says finally, honest and almost disbelieving of his own truth.

Misha’s face softens. “So then, what are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know--peoples’ perceptions of me changing, my perception of _myself_ changing. I’m comfortable with where I am now.”

“But you aren't _happy._ ”

“You make me happy,” he says quickly, almost too quickly, but it’s _true_.

“And is that enough?” Misha asks, face slightly resigned and Jensen has a panicked moment in his head over why on earth it’s like that. _Of course you are_ , he wants to say. Instead, he says:

“It’s enough for now.”

“For now,” Misha repeats, and that’s when Jensen tells him about Vancouver. For an actor, he has been known to have some _appalling_ timing.

Misha frowns. “Vancouver?”

Misha casts his gaze down to the wooden table between them. Once, Misha had told him he’d made it himself. Jensen had replied he wasn’t surprised Misha was good with his hands, and Misha countered cheekily that he knew quite well that Jensen was too. It had been a good night, suffice to say.

“Yeah,” Jensen replies cautiously, trying to break it easily. “Filming for the season would only be a couple months, but, if the show stays strong, I might get a place up there.”

“That makes sense,” Misha says a bit flatly, still frowning. A heavy feeling begins to coil in Jensen’s stomach. _This is not how this is supposed to go_ , a voice inside him decries, but another interjects that _it was always going to go this way._

“Come with me,” Jensen says suddenly, and until he says it he hadn’t even thought about it as a real solution.

Misha’s eyes widen in surprise, his whole body pulling back from the table edge. “I--what?” he stutters, but it only makes Jensen more sure to ask.

“Come with me to Vancouver. It’ll be just a couple months shooting before the winter hiatus, and you can go kayaking and hiking or whatever, or maybe get a job on some other show, so much stuff shoots up there now, and--” he begins quickly, not even thinking of the logistics of this plan except for the sweet possibility that _Misha could come with him._

“Jensen--” Misha starts, but Jensen cuts him off.

“Come with me, Misha. We don’t--we don’t have to figure all this out now, do we?” he pleads. _Please say yes,_ he wishes silently.

Misha goes still. “What would happen if I did?”

Okay, so Jensen had not exactly thought about that. “Well, you could get your own place, there isn’t as much paparazzi up there--I could stay over, even, in my time off,” he supposes. They could make it work just as well up there as down here in the States, couldn’t they?

“But you wouldn’t tell anyone.” Misha asks, except it’s not a question.

It completely takes Jensen aback. “Well, no... wait--what? Is _that_ what this is about?” he asks, and, evidently, Misha hears the slight accusation in his voice, because his eyes close up.

“Well I would like to know how many people I’d be allowed to talk to in a place where I don’t know anyone,” he responds somewhat stiffly, and Jensen knows instinctively what he’s getting at. _This was not how this was supposed to go._

“So what, you want me to come out? What the fuck happened to not forcing me into anything I wasn’t ready for? _'_ ” Misha cannot be asking this of him, not now, not when he _understood_.

Misha sighs heavily, getting up and busying himself with clearing the table. “I don’t want you to _come out_ , Jensen, hell--you don’t owe anyone a _damn thing_ in that regard, not even me. But I do want you to be honest with _yourself._ ”

Jensen glares, indignant. “And you know me better than I do, is that it? You know exactly what’s absolutely best for everyone, right?”

The other man raises his hands in defense. “I have no idea what’s best for you, because I have no idea what it is you want. But I don’t think you do either. I have no idea if you even want _me._ Do _you_ even know?” Misha asks, honestly.

But Jensen can’t answer, that’s not what this was about, right? He _wants_ Misha of course, but, “Misha, I’m not--”

“Gay, right? But you’re obviously gay enough to have a gay affair,” Misha spits bitterly, and walks away to bring their plates into the kitchen.

Jensen stays seated at the table as he hears the tap turn on a room away, completely at a loss of what to do. He feels betrayed, _naked_ , and he hates that Misha does this to him. He wants to yell at him, punch him, make him feel as bare and vulnerable as he does in this moment, but he distantly suspects Misha already does. The minutes pass, and the whole apartment stays quiet except for the oppressive sound of rushing water.

Jensen finally gets up and goes to the kitchen. Standing in the threshold, he perceives the taught stiffness of Misha’s back, turned away from him as he leans over the sink. A part of him yearns to go and ease those shoulders, to line up behind him and wrap his arms around them, and go back to something easy. But they can’t go back, not anymore.

Misha must have sensed his presence, as he says, “You know you’re a bit of an asshole, Jensen,” putting the last of the dishes away.

“Well, you’re a bit of one too, we make a good pair,” Jensen throws back, pale face colouring indignantly again.

Misha laughs mirthlessly and turns around to face him. “Yes, _clearly_ this is a partnership working out for the both of us,” he says with a grimace as he throws his dirty washcloth down onto the counter. “I’m sorry, you’re right. How foolish of me to think I deserved anything other than your respect when you think so little of me, of _this,_ ” he motions between them with his right hand, left now gripping the counter top beside him tightly.

Jensen scoffs, licking his lips in an effort to keep his frustration contained. “How exactly do I think so little of you? I’m here aren’t I? I could be _anywhere_ right now, but I’m here.”

Misha frowns at that. “Yeah, and for how long? You knew our days were numbered, Jensen, as soon as you got that part--but before that, too. It was only a matter of time before you realised you couldn’t handle any further development of your little _gay affair._ ” The memory of Misha’s last accusation still hangs heavily between them.

Jensen starts, defensive shields coming down over his eyes as he pleads, “I’m asking you to _come with me,_ how is that not development?”

“You’re asking me to come with you and what, be some guy you keep behind your trailer because you don’t want anyone to know about me? Keep your good little wholesome image while getting some on the side? I have a career too, you know. I can’t just up and leave everything here for the weak promise of being your fuck buddy in _Canada_!” Misha’s yelling now, voice raw and almost raspy, barely kept from breaking. “Good god, for a fully grown adult you can be so fucking _childish_ , Jensen,” he says with a sigh, hands bunching at his sides. “It’s a level of selfishness surpassing even your normal standards.”

Misha stares at Jensen standing rigid in the doorway of the room, soft blond-brown air alit timidly by the orange-tinged kitchen light. If Misha weren't so angry, as in their more tender moments, he might tell Jensen that he looks beautiful in this moment, eyes aflame and shoulders squared. Jensen might say the same of Misha, if he weren’t simmering with contempt. “So that’s it? Your answer? ‘No, and fuck you’?”

“Yeah pretty much, congratulations for sussing that out--excellent work,” Misha bites out sarcastically, his normal defence. A stark silence ensues, as both men stand awkwardly at a distance from each other, the chasm ever lengthening along the off-white tiles of the kitchen floor.

“So that’s it, then,” Jensen says after a moment, resigned and visibly tired for the first time since this argument started.

Misha softens a bit at his tone. “I guess so,” he says simply, throat stuck in shock at everything that’s crumbled around them. Jensen only turns quietly and leaves the room. He can’t look at him.

There had been a moment, weeks ago, when Jensen had been wrapped around Misha as he slept, and he’d been sure he would throw it all away for this man. This impossible man with too much deflection in his jokes and too much cleverness for conception, who despite all reason _loved him_ , and whom he loved. In a moment in the middle of the night Jensen felt weightless and thought he could leave everything he had known behind for the startling _unknown_ Misha Collins continually represented.

He never expected, though, for Misha to throw _him_ away first.

As Jensen goes to leave, Misha follows him, blue eyes glazed and heavy. If they are on the same page about anything, in this moment, it’s how much the shrapnel of their fight still pierces their wounds. For the first time in all this, he looks _sad_. Sarcasm and acerbic wit replaced with a genuine air of regretful defeat. If Jensen had turned to look at him, he would have known how much _he_ felt thrown, too.

"I’m sorry, Jensen. I love you, but I--I can’t," Misha’s voice cracks. "And you can’t, not really. It’s easier this way.”

Jensen stands still, hand already coiled around the doorknob. He won't look at him, it'd be too much. “I know," he says, and Misha adds, almost hopeful: "You know where to find me when you get back."

"I know," Jensen says again, quieter still, as he opens the door.

Those are the last words said between them for quite a long time.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Part II: 2008, or The Present: Where The Past Always Catches Up With You

 

 

It’s been eight years since he's seen Misha Collins. Eight years since that night where he brought him up to his apartment and eight years since that night where he just might have fallen in love.

Eight years later finds him somewhere completely different. And it's eight years until, while working on a show he's currently starring in, he finds out Misha has also been cast on it.

He finds out about Misha through the usual channels—the usual channels meaning Jared Padalecki.

 _Supernatural_ had been an incredible, career changing experience in many ways, but sometimes Jensen thought that none of it meant as much as the friendship he’d found with his co-star, who had, while playing his onscreen brother, become something like a real brother too. Jared was sweet and funny, and, though Jensen actually _did_ have siblings, Jared felt like one he had always been missing until he became Dean Winchester. Fulfilling his role as his honorary sibling, he also supplied Jensen with all the set gossip.

“Did you hear they cast the new guy?” Jared says as Jensen's putting away food in the kitchen they shared. 

After nearly four years of working together in close quarters, and spending nearly as much time hanging out together off set as well as on, it seemed like the only natural decision that they room together, too. When Jared offered him a floor in his house, he’d pretty much moved in the next day. 

He looks around the door of an open cupboard to prompt Jared to elaborate. “Local?”

Jared moves around Jensen to pluck a box of Oreos out of a shopping bag and begins to open them. “No, out of L.A. I think? Eric didn't say much.”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Eric never says much.”

Jared chuckles. “Very true,” he tries to say around his cookie. “But anyway, yeah, I think they're shooting episode one scenes with you and him first thing? So you have to tell me how he is.”

Jensen has no doubt whoever they got is entirely competent, but it’s always a toss up as to whether or not their new person will _click_. “Shooting starts tomorrow, right? Yeah, man, I'll tell you how it goes.”

 

 

***

 

 

It goes—well, it goes.

He doesn't actually find out the guy's name until he gets on set, and, even then, he has about 10 minutes in between finding out and their blocking run-through to steal himself for the inevitable.

Because the guy's name is Misha fucking Collins.

It's not that Jensen never expected to run into Misha one of these days. The guy was an actor—still was for all he knew, and a good one at that. They didn't exactly run in the same circles anymore—really, they never did—but Hollywood was a cliché machine in the regard of how often you could run into someone you'd never think you'd see again. And Jensen hadn't for eight years. 

Until, rather ironically considering how they had broken up, he finds him in _Canada._

When he first sees Misha again, it's almost like nothing has changed: he still sucks the power out of the room and into himself, vibrating with charisma and the glint of a smile at the corner of his mouth—except it's not the same at _all_.

He looks older, in the best way. Like he _grew up_ , like how Jensen had grown up and into his own skin. Misha could have been mistaken for a teenager the last time Jensen had seen him, all of twenty-five with a point to prove. Now, there's no mistaking that this is a _man,_ rough in ways he never was before, sporting scruff and a rougher voice as he talks to the script supervisor next to him. Jensen can hardly believe it belongs to the same man who used to lightly whisper poetry in his ear as they stole time together in his bed. But it's undeniably _him_ , and for a moment, for a heartbreaking and breathless moment, Jensen almost feels like falling in love again.

The instant he remembers the wonder of that feeling, though, that flood of familiar emotion, he remembers the crushing, aching drought that succeeds it. He remembers, for instance, how dangerous that bright smile can be once you'd do anything to see it. But Jensen’s not that boy anymore, and, looking at Misha, Jensen can see no one is as much changed as he.

His shoulders have filled out since he's last seen him, and although he's still lean and spry more than robust, Jensen can tell he's built up his runner's body. At least, from what Jensen can gather beneath the multiple layers of wardrobe Misha's currently swimming under. Apparently going for the desk-jockey angel look.

Still, he is, if possible, _more_ handsome, which is, surprisingly, something Jensen’s comfortable admitting to himself. 

He’s come a long way from the scared kid he’d once been, on the cusp of making his career and desperate to maintain that wholesome Texas image, even at the cost of being honest with himself. Even at the cost of what he had with Misha. But perhaps now, they can make amends.

But first, the inevitable strained hello.

It actually doesn’t go too badly, in that neither of them punch each other or grope each other in the middle of the set, which Jensen considers a considerable victory in self-restraint, because he kind of wants to do both from the minute he sees him.

By the looks of it, Misha's obviously had more time to come to terms with the situation than him, as he's all easy manners while they run through a rehearsal and lighting checks. By the time they get a break before they actually start rolling, Jensen almost doesn't feel weird at all about working with someone who is, effectively, although no one else in the world knows it, his ex.

It only really gets weird when the director says action, because then Misha _disappears_ and Jensen finds an angel standing in front of him. 

When Misha becomes Castiel as the camera rolls, it's nothing like they practiced just hours earlier, and half of Dean's surprise and overwhelmed reaction is really Jensen's, because holy _shit_.

It's not just the voice—okay, it is the voice—but also that Jensen, in the near year that he had known Misha, never really saw him act. At all. Their relationship was born outside of work and their respective acting careers, so he guessed they kind of had an unspoken agreement to keep it that way. Jensen knows that Misha was good at a variety of things so he always assumed he was a good actor too, but thinking it and seeing it are two entirely different things. Here, in front of him, Misha _transforms_ into Castiel. It's the only way to describe it.

His voice drops ten registers and drags itself over gravel, and Jensen has no idea what to make of it, which is useful, because Dean Winchester isn't supposed to either. It’s not hard to make Dean look terrified, uncertain, and flustered all in one shot.

Though, Dean Winchester might just look aroused, and that is entirely Jensen’s fault.

When they finish the shoot, Jensen’s still as unsettled as he was when they begun. Except now he’s wrestling with a re-emerging sense of fervent lust that he really hasn’t felt in eight years. This was _so_ not good.

As soon as he’s given permission, he steals away to his trailer to gather his thoughts.

He’s pulled suddenly out of them, however, with a knock at his trailer door about a half hour later. Something churns in his gut as he thinks of who it could possibly be, because he can think of only one person with such horribly awful timing who would come talk to him at a time like this. 

He wonders briefly if Misha will think he’s not here, or sleeping, or _something_ , if he waits long enough, but that thought is quickly dismissed. Misha always had a sixth sense about these things.

Jensen gathers himself. He’s better than this, they’re adults, and _colleagues_ no less (although that will never stop sounding strange in his head), and they can talk rationally. Let’s hope.

Jensen gets up slowly and takes a breath before unlocking and opening the door.

Misha’s standing there as anticipated, newly divested of his Castiel trench coat and limp hanging suit. It’s a testament to his acting, Jensen supposes, how undeniably _Misha_ he looks now, standing somewhat awkwardly at Jensen’s step with hair in its usual casual disarray, now sporting jeans and a faded t-shirt, with hands stuffed in his pockets. The last time he’d seen Misha, he’d been a fierce and ferocious presence of an _angel_.

Echoing the written lines spouted by his character counterpart not hours before, Misha raises his gaze to grab his attention with full force, and opens: “We need to talk.”

 

 

***

 

 

He probably should have started with something like “Hi,” or, “It’s nice to see you again,” except _nice_ absolutely doesn’t describe the feeling of what it is to see Misha again, and Jensen was never one for lying to him. No, in terms of their past, he’d was more one to be lying to himself.

Instead, Jensen starts gruffly with, “You’ve, um, changed.” _Excellent form, Ackles_ , he internally chastises.

Misha seems not to notice his awkwardness, however, or maybe he just doesn't care, because he smiles and slips back into their usual banter. “For better or worse?” he jokes, flopping down on the small couch in Jensen’s trailer as if he belongs there. A traitorous part of Jensen’s consciousness whispers that he does. He can do this.

He puts on a winning smile of his own. “Well, you definitely don’t look like you could be mistaken for 18 anymore so... worse?” he volleys back, and Misha laughs--and god, did he _miss_ that sound.

“Mhmm, yeah, you don’t look so well off yourself, it’s like you could almost be _thirty_ ,” he says, eyes glinting with mischief and mirth. “Stardom has not been terribly kind, my friend. My sincerest condolences.”

Jensen had always thought Misha looked effortlessly comfortable in his own skin before, but now he sees that might have not been the case. The Misha before him is completely at ease. He’s not pretending, he’s not hyper and eager to please, he just _is_. And Jensen had once known this part of him--that was the person Misha had always been in their most private moments--but he’d had this conception of Misha in the past as _always_ like that in every venue of his life. He wonders now if he’d had it wrong, if, in the intervening years, as much as Jensen had learned to learn himself, Misha had, too.

He’s surprised by his own ease in which he continues their conversation to something more serious. “So, uh, how are you?” he asks, sitting down across from him in a chair he pulls out from the small table in his trailer’s kitchenette.

“Well, I’m guest starring on a successful sci-fi show opposite a guy I used to fuck, so you could really spin that either way, I think,” Misha answers, and Jensen didn’t expect him to bring it up so _quickly_.

“And you’re... cool with that?”

Misha looks at him with sympathy. “Jensen, I wouldn’t have auditioned in the first place if I wasn’t. Besides,” he leans back, stretching his arms to lock his hands behind his head. “We’re both consummate professionals, are we not?” And there’s the Misha he always had alway known.

Jensen smirks. “Well, I am.”

“Touché. I just play one on TV now. Castiel seems pretty professional.”

And now it’s his turn to chuckle. “Professional dick, you mean? You’ve read the next episode too, I’m sure,” he points out. Truth be told Jensen had been wondering what it would be like to act out the last scene of 4.02, even before he’d known he’d be acting it opposite Misha. He wonders how he’s going to be able to cope with Misha borrowing Castiel’s ignorance of personal space. 

Not that Misha himself had ever had much conception of that to begin with.

Misha’s eyes flash in playful delight. “Now, that sounds like _Dean_ talking. But yeah, I’ve read it. I get to put the fear of God in you, Jensen Ross Ackles,” he grins, and oh god, not that smile.

That is the smile that’s haunted Jensen’s regrets since he left him. That is the smile that made him feel equal parts petrified and purified. That is the smile of a man named Misha Collins who _knows_ he is adorable.

His heart’s racing in his chest with the adrenaline more suited to a marathon. Screw what he’d thought about growing up to feel settled in his skin, every nerve in his body is on high alert right now, because the man he has arguably been in love with for the last eight years is sitting in front of him. 

“You still with, um... Vicki?” he asks some what awkwardly. Very awkwardly.

Jensen’s possession of this name visibly startles Misha. “Oh, um--no, we broke it off a while ago,” he says automatically, like he’s been used to providing people with a quick answer. “Wait,” he shakes himself, confused, “how did _you_ know about her?”

And now for even more awkward admissions. “A couple years ago, after _Dark Angel_ was cancelled and I made it back to L.A. I called you but you’d moved. The guy living there gave me your new number and, when I called it up, she was the voice on the phone, so I assumed...”

Misha’s hands fall from his head to his knees. He rubs his palms on his jeans distractedly. “No uh, yeah, no you assumed correctly. We were engaged even, for a while there.”

Now _that_ is news. A lump settles in Jensen’s throat. “What happened?”

Misha smiles to himself. “There was another woman,” he says, startling Jensen into a gape. He’d never thought Misha was one for cheating. Misha spots Jensen’s reaction and hastily clarifies, “ _She_ fell in love. And, well, we might have struck up some sort of threesome thing --she definitely offered--but I...” he starts pumping his leg in his fidgeting, “realised I was still in love with someone else, too.”

The hope Jensen had been subconsciously building up crumbles. “Are you and this other chick...?” which causes Misha to actually _laugh._

“I love that you would still assume they were a woman.” 

Oh. 

“Oh, um, are you and... he?” Jensen corrects. Misha’s gaze falls to his hands on his knees, as if he’s almost _shy_. How unlike him.

“No, I haven’t seen him in awhile,” he says, quietly.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” and, despite his unavoidable simmering jealousy, Jensen really is. He does want Misha to be happy.

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t know you’d come back to see me,” Misha says.

Jensen’s quick abandonment of his attempt at reparation with that one phone call had kind of assured that. “Yeah. Would it have changed anything, though?” he asks.

Misha tilts his head in a way scarily like his new character. “It might have.”

But that in there was the reason, _‘might’_. “I don't know if I'm at an age where I have any use for maybes,” he replies, hoping Misha understands what he means by that. _I thought you would have rejected me._

Their conversation peters out into amiable silence after that, picking up at different intervals with tiny bits of news of what they’ve each been up too. At a certain point, they both realise they’ve been sitting in this trailer for several hours, and it’s hitting 10 P.M. They both should be getting some sleep, as neither have gotten actual rest in something close to 20 hours. Jensen doesn’t feel as tired as he thinks he should though.

Misha turns to him once more as he’s about to leave. “You've grown up.”

“Oh, um, thank you?” 

“No, I mean it, you've--” Misha waves a hand around as if that explains it. “You've grown. You became want you wanted—more than what you wanted. Being settled suits you.”

 

 

***

 

 

For the next several weeks of the season 4 shoot, Misha’s only on set on and off. Even with the episodes Castiel the angel _is_ in, Misha’s not in nearly the same amount of scenes as him or Jared, so he has quite a bit more time to himself. Jensen would feel a bit jealous, except for the fact that he really gets a kick out of Misha coming back to work with stories. For instance, his completely rained out camping trip in the back woods of Vancouver Island where he somehow managed to stumble across a couple of similarly stranded German tourists and they all got trashed together. The story becomes very graphic after that. As expected, Jared loves him. 

And whatever kind of relationship they’ve struck up now, it’s something entirely _new,_ because in all the time Jensen’s known Misha, they’ve never been just friends. From the first moment he’d met him they’d been dancing around _something_ , after all, but now, although Jensen still wakes up at night from wet dreams of Misha’s thighs around him, they’ve got all this space between them that’s actually kind of comfortable.

It isn’t until they are a couple days into their shoot of episode 7 that Jensen realises this space between them, while a _content_ space, is a bit too much. He likes being Misha’s friend, obviously, he’s funny and eccentric and he gets a long great with Jared (if Jensen didn’t suspect Jared of having a serious crush on that girl Genevieve he might be a little jealous), but he misses being _close_ with him. He misses Misha being in _his_ space more and more.

It’s hard playing Dean and Cas, who are also gravitating around each other, inching closer and closer but tragically never closing the distance. Jensen really starts feeling sorry for Dean, because at least he once knew what it felt like to finally touch the person you were confusingly but absurdly attracted to. Although he and Dean are both in the blue balls boat right now.

Like Dean and Cas, however, Jensen and Misha are slowly but surely stuttering towards the inevitable conclusion.

It all mercifully comes to a head on a Thursday evening. But first, in somewhat of a tradition, they have dinner.

They have dinner with a lot of people actually. A whole bunch of them go out after a long day of shooting. It’s fun and loose and, when it’s over, Jensen thinks, even if he never kisses Misha again, he’s glad he has him back in his life. He really hopes he gets to kiss Misha again, though.

It’s Jared who invites Misha back to the house for drinks. When Jensen looks at him strangely, the dude _winks_ , like he _knows_. Jensen blushes, and vows to tell Gen about Jared’s ridiculous crush. 

Later, he also vows to buy Jared a million drinks to last him a lifetime, because whatever Jared’s plan was, it’s kind of a success.

Misha comes over, and they crack open some beers and kick back and it’s nice, really. It’s nice because, for another good two hours, Jensen’s graced with the sight of Misha’s lips wrapped around the head of a beer bottle in a hilariously phallic fashion (Jensen suspects Misha is making those sucking sounds whenever he takes a swig on purpose). It gets even better when Jared smoothly excuses himself to go to bed, leaving Jensen and Misha alone in the living room with entirely too much couch space between them.

Jensen makes some joke that he can hardly remember later, already a bit buzzed from all the alcohol and the nervous twitch the shine of Misha’s eyes sends through his veins ( _definitely_ a bit buzzed). Misha laughs, nose-scrunching and eyes crinkling in a way that lights up his face with an all encompassing kind of mirth that is almost too hard to bear without kissing him. 

So Jensen doesn’t try.

He misses slightly, maybe subconsciously on purpose, hitting the corner of Misha’s mouth first. Once there’s finally skin on skin, he finds he cannot stop. From the enthusiastic hum emerging from Misha’s own throat, it seems the other man is rather in agreement.

Misha’s skin feels like everything he’d remembered. It’s smooth and soft--but rough in new ways too, aged like the timbre of his voice into something even more savoury. It feels every bit like something he wants to sink his teeth into, to sink _himself_ into, to get lost in the feeling of Misha’s skin on his if only he could get close enough, some barrier of constricting flesh would break.

“I think you just contradicted yourself,” Misha breathes out finally, pulling away slightly for air.

"Hmm?" Jensen hums distractedly, mind still engaged in an endless mantra of Misha's lips.

"You're 'not gay', remember? I hate to break it to you--no, I'd _love_ to break it to you--but that kiss was textbook gay. A+ I'd say, if I were grading."

Jensen huffs almost shyly. "Yeah, I guess it was," he says finally, raising his gaze from where it had been fixated on Misha's mouth to meet the other's stare, almost as a challenge. "Objections?"

"Only one. _You stopped_ ,” Misha teases as he licks his lips. Jensen doesn’t need an invitation twice.

Claiming Misha’s lips again feels like coming home in a sense, if home were the mouth of a man so elusively charismatic and impossible that Jensen doesn’t always know if he feels annoyance or attraction. It’s probably something of both. But there is no denying the way his skin alights when Misha cups his jaw and rubs his thumb along his cheek. Nor the way his whole body leans into the press of Misha’s thigh against his in a promise of friction he is desperate to chase.

“This would probably be more enjoyable with fewer clothes,” Misha suggests, voice even deeper than it has the audacity to sound like the rest of the time, approaching Castiel-like levels of huskiness to the point that Jensen idly wonders how Dean isn’t written as perpetually turned on in their scenes together. Any mental note to advise Kripke on that state of affairs is, however, pushed backward in favour of revelling in the feeling of Misha’s hands dipping under his shirt and drawing his fingers across the expanse of his back as his muscles flex under them.

“I don’t,” Jensen starts in between kisses along the base of Misha’s neck. “I don’t have any stuff--”

“Don’t worry,” Misha cuts him off, unbuckling Jensen’s belt as he tilts his head to whisper in his ear. “Right now, I just want to make you come from my hands alone.” That’s when all reservations Jensen might have still harboured are kindly dismissed.

Shucking his own shirt as quickly as possible--as Misha swiftly does the same--they collapse back onto the sofa, Jensen practically in Misha's lap.

“I hate to be a teenage boy about this,” Misha says in between kisses. “But you, Jensen Ackles, got _hot_.”

Jensen laughs into the skin at Misha’s throat. “Are you saying I wasn't hot before?”

“No, you definitely were. All-American dream, remember? You've just undergone some, ah--” he hisses as Jensen nips at the bottom of his jaw, “ _improvements._ ”

Hands mapping the expanse of Misha’s torso he says, “I could say the same for you.”

“I am a handsome devil,” Misha agrees as Jensen nips at his jaw while his hands move down to unbuckle Misha’s belt.

“I thought you were an angel?”

Misha laughs again, and captures Jensen’s face between his hands. “Have you not done your research? The devil _is_ an angel.”

“Still the devil, though,” Jensen says, and finds Misha’s lips again, causing Misha to hum happily.

“One that will lead you to sin.”

Jensen licks around the lobe of Misha’s ear as he whispers, “ _Oh, I hope so._ ”

There is less occasion for flirting after that, as their mouths are otherwise occupied with more delicious exploits. It’s altogether almost too much to bear, the brilliant sensation of skin on skin. It’s almost too much to _bare_ as well. Despite creating an oxymoron in thinking it, he no longer feels _naked_ anymore like he once did. To be laid bare on top of Misha is not to be stripped of something, of some mask or cloak or excuse he tells himself, but to find something new to curl into. 

Hearts catch on the hitch of their breaths as their mouths find requital in the burn of their bodies. It’s almost too slow, like the years of their climbing towards this climactic catharsis, like the perfect agony of Misha’s hand on his chest as it moves slowly downwards.

Shirts having found a new home on the floor, Misha lies back to press his head against the last remaining throw pillow that they hadn’t already managed to kick off in all their fervour. Jensen takes in the sight as he straddles Misha’s hips and balances himself above him on the too-small sofa.

“I missed this,” he admits. And he really, really did. Oh god, he'smissed _him_ , like he's scarcely missed anyone, or anything—it's a feeling rooted deep down in his chest, an ache blossoming with every breath. And it's foolish, and meaningless now when he has Misha's own rising chest beneath his palms, heart just below his fingers, but something in him almost wants to cry with disbelief.

Misha pulls him by the waist to crush them chest to chest, kissing him fondly before reciprocating with a “same here”. The motion is a bit too jerky, and Jensen can’t help but laugh in a sort of delirious relief, the sound vibrating through Misha’s ribs.

“Up,” Jensen finally orders, pressing his fingers into Misha’s hips. Misha lifts them so he can shimmy his jeans downwards, and, once he does, Jensen presses the heel of his palm into Misha’s erection through his underwear, garnering him a satisfying hiss from the man beneath him.

Jensen soon divests himself of his own pants, moving as fast as his muscles can possibly allow, and trying not to falter at the fist of Misha’s hand now pulling at his hair. He reclaims his place at Misha’s mouth soon after. It’s only when the strain of his own briefs between them reminds him they are still not completely naked, that Jensen decides _fuck it_ ,and grinds their cocks together anyway. He’s rewarded by another sweet sound from Misha’s frankly pornographic mouth.

As Jensen makes his way across Misha’s clavicle with the talents of his tongue, Misha reaches down to push at Jensen’s underwear past the curve of his ass, just enough to free his cock. He cups Jensen’s balls with his delicate fingers before moving back up to grab a hold of his shaft. Their breaths become more and more desperate as Jensen mirrors the same, bumping into Misha’s hand as his fists his around Misha’s newly freed erection as they both begin to pump. 

Maybe it’s a testament to how much they need this, or how much their muscle memory never fails them, because they both remember the perfect twists of the wrist and pulls to get each other off.

So it’s slow, but it’s fast too. Fast like the thirst of their lips and the grind of their hips. Fast like the gasp of their names as the shortened syllables ring in the room. Fast in the way that it would be over too fast, but also in the way that their heartbeats raced and their eyes fluttered closed at final release.

God, he _really_ fucking missed this.

 

 

***

 

 

“You’re nothing like you used to be,” Misha says quietly, after.

“You’re not either,” Jensen replies.

They never really did this before, the tenderness. Or maybe they had, Jensen’s memory of that year having been marred by how painfully it had ended. He almost has no idea why they’re doing this _now_ , except... it feels _good_ , it feels right, and Jensen’s tired of hiding behind himself, refusing the very things he wants most. He curls a hand around Misha’s ear as he brushes the now sweaty brown hair behind it when an idle thought occurs to him. “You used to be blonder, didn’t you?”

Misha chuckles. “I used to be a lot of things.” 

_He_ did, too. Jensen’s grateful for the change.

 

 

***

 

 

It's not necessarily easy, and maybe their mistake the first time was thinking that it was. They still get on each other's nerves, they have their bickering and their arguments, but somehow, staggeringly, they’ve landed themselves into a mature relationship just in time for Misha to be asked if he wants to expand his contract.

“I--” Misha begins one afternoon, unsure of how to continue. “They want to make me a regular,” he finally blurts out, eyes wide as if he's surprised the words he just uttered were even true.

“What did you say?” Jensen asks without reaction, because he can't allow it yet until he _know_ s.

Misha shifts himself before standing up squarely. “I said yes,” he answers, and relief floods through Jensen's chest, and Misha must see it too, because at Jensen's reaction he visibly relaxes.

“So you’re sticking around then?”

The corners of Misha’s mouth quirk. “Yeah,” and then there’s that Cas-like head tilt, or maybe by now Jensen should be calling Cas’ mannerisms Misha-like. “Are you?” he asks back, only half-joking.

And Jensen smiles, a grateful feeling blossoming in his chest. Smiling was always so simple with him. “Yeah.”

They were totally a Meg Ryan movie. 

 

 


End file.
